The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.
Ah, sleep, that wonderful rejuvenation. Nothing in the world is quite like waking from a long sleep, feeling refreshed and ready for the day. When I wake, I can feel the energy of the day, hear the sounds of birds and wind in the trees; this and more, unless I didn’t get to sleep until 4:00 or so.
Such was my case last night. I felt jazzed up — not worrying much, just mostly wide awake. I tried reading, I tried computer games, I worked on the novel, but nothing put me to sleep. I believe the reason for this is that I haven’t slept well for a couple of days, and lack of sleep is a dangerous condition in which I find myself occasionally. Insomnia leads directly to hallucination — transparent spiders in the room, descending in bunches of six or seven on a single thread of web; and little white worms crawling out of my Morgellon’s lesions. Genuinely awful images, which, (at the time,) I believe are totally authentic, fully real circumstances.
I heard a lot from J., my last husband, about hallucinating with the aid of LSD or peyote mushrooms. I feel a profound sense of incredulity that anyone would choose that state. Not only are mine creepy, but I know they are real, and I am frustrated beyond belief that no one believes me. I talked to my doctor, my parents, and my friends, asking each of them not to deny my visions of wriggly nastiness. I asked them all to ask me one question — How have you been sleeping? I feel quite strongly that if I even begin to answer that question, I will come to my senses, sheepishly admit that nothing is there, and go home and crash in bed for a day or two.
Problems arise when anyone responds to my insistence with Nothing is there, or No, I don’t see anything, or some other obviously ineffective response. Throughout my life, I struggled with the feeling that no one believed me when I said something was wrong with my body. There are reasons for this, with the strongest being my parents, on my (dumbass) doctor’s advice, completely avoiding involvement in my struggles with diabetes, lest I become dependent on them. This withdrawal fed my belief that I was alone in the world — different from everyone else, singled out by God to suffer through this life. That feeling stayed with me for years.
I do not fault my parents for following the doctor’s advice — in fact, I understand now that they were acting in what they believed were my very best interests. The doctor, on the other hand, (whom I thought I could forgive for the banishment I felt,) gets nothing but contempt. He is still practicing pediatrics — my doctor’s group just bought his, and he is accessible to me in a way I didn’t ever expect. The only reason I haven’t acted on my wish to confront him is that I can’t think of strong enough words.
I have wandered far from the topic of insomnia, but all of the above history is tied into my frustration at the disbelief of my medical caregivers. The fact that they are right doesn’t mean anything to me, at the time — I simply feel anxiety and a sense of chagrined resentment.
The only answer is to sleep. I am home from work today, and after breakfast I intend to take a Benadryl and go back to bed. Hopefully I can catch up in a day, and from now on, I intend to use some kind of sleep aid every night to reset my sleep pattern. Meantime, (YAWN,) nighty-night.